Silver Lining
by crimsonrhodelia
Summary: Downton Abbey, September, 1914. To Branson's surprise, Lady Sybil makes a social call. A dull, rainy afternoon is as good a time as any to begin a new tradition.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Because in 1914, 1920 is an eternity away.

**Silver Lining**

_September, 1914_

It's a gloomy day for this time of year. The sky is grey and rain beats down on the windows of the house as it has since the early morning: dreary weather for a dreadfully dreary afternoon. Sybil hates to be cooped up like this, hates the feeling that summer has ended already. But then perhaps summer ended prematurely at the garden party, on that beautiful afternoon last month, with Papa's announcement.

Conversation at dinner is usually about the War, and always, universally, optimistic: "_We'll give the Huns a sound thrashing, what?" _But as she stares out the window at the fading roses, all she can think about is the rain beating down on the ground below, turning it to mud.

She can't keep count of the times she's heard "_It'll all be over by Christmas._" What if it's not? How can they be so sure, these men, her Papa and their neighbours and the friends from his club? She'd snuck away from the drawing room one evening, after the ladies had gone through while the gentlemen lingered with their port and cigar, and stolen back to the dining room, pressed her ear up against the door, to see if their words were sincere, or simply intended to spare the ladies' delicate sensibilities.

Talk was just beginning to turn from Papa's war back to the present one when a creaking floorboard behind her forced her heart into her throat. The carefully crafted excuse to explain away her eavesdropping at her father's door should she be caught died on her lips when she turned and found herself to be confronted by the terrifying prospect of Mr Carson's eyebrows, raised in question. Instead, she'd stammered something about having taken a wrong turn, _as though she could get lost in her own house! _and hurried away.

These days she asks herself more frequently why it is that in a house so constantly full of people, only some talk to her with any frankness, only a few seem to realise that she is bursting at the seams with thoughts, ideas, and opinions, and only a very few seem to take an interest in finding out what those are, at all.

The rain continues to fall and the clock continues to tick, the only sounds breaking the silence in the room until she says out loud, "Oh, hang it!", and thinks, _Why not?_, and heads up to her room to change into a pair of older boots. As an afterthought, she grabs a shawl, and drapes it carefully over her hair, right before she steps through the front door and runs out into the rain.

The air is surprisingly warm; fat raindrops hit her face; Mamma and Granny would give her the scolding of a lifetime; Mary and Edith might be tempted to send her off to an asylum, but Sybil stands still and takes a deep, deep breath.

There is something strangely exhilarating about the weather now, experienced like this, directly, in person, rather than from behind a window, and she can't help but laugh out loud as she skips to the garage, quite deliberately tracking her feet through the puddles as often as she can.

Her breathing is heavy, her cheeks wet, but warm, and her heart feels lighter than it has all day when she rounds the corner and is met by the sight of Branson, crouched down by the side of the motor, with his back to her. "Hello, down there!" she calls out cheerfully, "Wretched day, isn't it?"

His head jerks up in surprise before he scrambles quickly to his feet, gives his hair a quick pat down, and turns to her, back straight, posture perfect. "Good day, milady. Will you be needing the m-"

Catching the lingering surprise at her sudden appearance on his face, she laughs again. "Oh, dear, did I startle you? I am sorry; only I'm so terribly _bored_, you see, being stuck indoors all day because of this ghastly weather, and so I rather thought I might pay you a visit."

Something about the way his lips curve when he gives her a half-smile makes her smile back immediately.

"Well. I shall say that I'm honoured, then, and not so sure I could call today wretched, now you've said that." He looks away then, down at the workbench, then at his hands as he wipes them with a rag. "...That is to say, I shouldn't like to take you out in the motor in this rain, milady."

"Oh, the rain! I don't care much about that, honestly." She casts off the dripping wet shawl, tugs it down from around her neck, bundles it up in her hand. "In fact, I think it rather suits me today."

Branson looks back at her and grins, raising an eyebrow. "I can see that," as he shoots a pointed look at the hem of her skirt, covered two inches in mud.

Sybil suddenly feels a little bit like Elizabeth Bennet, standing before Mr Darcy after the walk to Netherfield. It's silly to feel this way in front of a servant, she knows, but then she's always admired Elizabeth, and she hasn't thought of Branson as a servant in a long time. Perhaps ever, really.

For show, she hitches up her skirt a little, only to the tops of her muddy boots, mind you, and does a little twirl. "Why, Branson, this _charming _pattern is all the latest fashion in London, don't you know."

He rolls his eyes and snorts, a wry sound from the back of his throat, thereabouts. "I'd believe it."

"I'll have you know, I intend to ensure that running about in the rain become quite the thing during my next Season," she responds, putting on her haughtiest, most Granny-like expression..

His gaze shifts and locks with hers. "I'd believe that, too. And I'd bet you would succeed, at that."

Somehow at the same time both pleased at his words, and not quite sure how to respond to them, Sybil ducks her head and casts around for a place to lay out her shawl to dry instead.

Branson steps forward, takes it from her hand without a word and drapes it over the open door of the motor. "That ought to do, milady. I hope." He gives her another grin. "Though if it doesn't, please don't tell Anna. She'll have my hide if she finds I've got motor oil on it."

Again, she returns the smile. "She won't hear, not from me. What were you working on?" She frowns a little. "I'm not disturbing you, am I? I shouldn't like to be a bother, dropping in on you unexpectedly like this."

He lays his hand on the bonnet of the Renault with a degree of affection that amuses her as much as she finds it endearing. "No bother at all, milady. I was only giving her a look, general, like. Not much else to do, with the weather like this, and what with no one wanting to stir from the house." He busies himself with peering at the surface of the bonnet, narrowing his eyes at a possible scratch, before adding evenly, "Besides, it is your home, after all. You can come and go as you please, I would think. Only, won't you be missed?"

She shrugs slightly in response. "I rather doubt it. Everyone seems to be quite determined to be dull and bored on their own, today." Arching her eyebrows, she gives him a significant look. "Which is, of course, why I decided to go for a stroll after luncheon, only to find myself caught in rather worse a rainstorm that I had expected, you see."

"Mmhm," he murmurs in agreement, looking back up at her. "Of course. Bad luck, milady."

"Rather. So the only reasonable thing, really, was to wait out the storm in here, of course, with you."

"Of course, milady. It wouldn't do for you to catch cold." He tilts his head, considering. "I suppose I had better find you a place to sit, then, while you wait."

She takes off her damp gloves and places them carefully over her shawl. "Thank you, Branson, you are terribly kind."

"Not at all, milady." He disappears in the back of the garage, rummaging around for a minute or two, during which she takes the time to inspect this interesting new place. She'd never spent much time here, not even as a very little girl, when it had still been part of the stables, in the days when her family had kept more carriages than only the governess cart and the landau.

The garage smells a little of metal, of motor oil, of benzine, and although Sybil is too much of a romantic to find much beauty in the marvels of industrialisation and mechanisation, she decides that she quite likes the garage, if nothing else, for the dark green woollen livery, hung carefully on a hook on the door, for the newspapers, one folded open on the workbench, others stacked neatly in a corner, for the now cold cup of tea, carefully placed next to a manual of some sorts, and completely forgotten about.

This is someone's home, she thinks, or a home away from home, she corrects herself; and this unexpected peek at it is really rather fascinating. It's the first time she's gotten a look at this side of Branson, and she doubts she'd have gotten this look any other way.

He returns, then, carrying a high stool and sets it down near the workbench. "Best I can do, I'm afraid. I gave it a quick scrub down, but you'll want to mind your frock."

"Oh, I don't mind about all that, really! Besides, Anna does a splendid job with stains, and I-" she breaks off, all at once concerned that she might have sounded rather callous just now, as though she doesn't care a jot about her clothes, because she has a maid to take care of them and so many other frocks besides that it's hardly a matter of concern to her what happens with one of them. "Thank you, Branson," she says instead.

He inclines his head. "Milady."

A little uncertainly, she looks at the stool. It does seem rather high, and she's not quite sure if she'll be able to manage the first step without risking exposure of a little more leg than is covered by the tops of her boots.

She feels awfully silly asking, but... "Would you mind...?" She reaches out to him and to steady herself, her bare hand comes into contact with his bare forearm.

She's not sure why this touch is so different from the feeling of his hand against hers at the garden party, which was in itself so different from the feeling of his hand against hers whenever he helps her into the motor.

But it is.

Objectively speaking, and Sybil tries to consider things from an objective point of view as best as she can, the only difference between _those _situations and this one is the lack of glove, or gloves, singular or plural, and although that really oughtn't make any sort of difference, somehow, strangely, it _does_.

Branson looks terribly serious as he reaches out, places his free hand under her elbow, and boosts her up onto the stool.

Her hand still clutches his forearm and the skin there is more tanned than she'd have expected, as though on his half-days, he goes around the countryside in shirtsleeves, and for all she knows, he does; the sparse hair is light blond; his fingertips are rough, but not coarse; his grip is firm, secure, confident, but not painful.

He's standing close enough to her now that she is very aware of the fact that the top few buttons of his shirt are undone, that the hollow of his throat is visible, that she can catch a faint hint of shaving soap if she inhales deeply, and that she does so, several times, and that she wonders if his cheeks are smooth or rough with stubble right now.

She's not certain why she's noticing these things now, or why this noticing these things is almost dizzying, but she suspects it is not entirely unrelated to what happened at the garden party last month, when for a moment, he held her hand in his and she held his in hers.

She wonders if she's blushing.


	2. Chapter 2

It's a gloomy day for this time of year. The sky is grey and rain beats down on the windows of the house as it has since the early morning.

Branson doesn't mind, however. With the family unlikely to go out, he has plenty of time today to give the Renault a thorough going over, something he's been wanting to do for a while now.

He's spent the morning examining a new manual his brother recommended to him in one of his latest letters, so engrossed in it that when he had finally remembered to reach for the cup of tea he'd set down beside the book hours early, it had of course long grown cold. He could go off to the kitchen again to beg another fresh cup off of Mrs Patmore, but he's already pushed his luck with her this morning, stealing a rasher of bacon straight from the pan with a cheeky grin while she fixed him his tea. With impressive reflexes, barely turning to look at him, she'd smacked his hand with a wooden spoon immediately, and scowling, told him "_Go on, be off with you!". _Still, she hadn't stopped him from going for a second piece before retreating from the kitchen. Perhaps he'll push his luck there a little later then.

He'll probably have enough free time left after this job is done to get caught up on this week's papers, too. He hadn't had the chance to finish yesterday's yet, it's been laid open on the workbench since last night. Although making his way up to the house to see what else his Lordship's library has on offer is appealing too. If nothing else, Lord Grantham may rightfully pride himself on a fine collection. He'd been disappointed at first, to find that he was really the only one downstairs with much of an interest in reading besides Mr Carson, Mrs Hughes and their novels, but the unexpected discovery that Lady Sybil of all people was at the very least _curious _about some of the issues he was most passionate about had done a lot to soften that blow.

It's wet out, but not cold, and so he's taken off his livery, hung it tidily over the hook by the door, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He dislikes the constricting feeling of his tie and the buttons by his neck in general, but he especially hates them while he's doing work on the motor. _Too much like a yoke_, he's always felt, and so he'd undone both as soon as Thomas had delivered Mr Carson's message indicating that his services were not likely to be needed today.

Crouched down beside the motor, he wonders how many more days like this he'll have, days of quiet, peaceful routine.

The house, the village, the county, everyone is full of optimistic patriotism. Some have described Branson as an idealist, but although he may be a dreamer, he isn't a fool. This "_over by Christmas_" business sounds like a load of bollocks to him. He's done enough reading with his interest in history and politics to know that surely sooner or later, they'll be sending everyone, maybe especially him, a young, able-bodied man with a knack for mechanics, off to die in a field in France or Flanders, For King and Country.

Well, it's not _his _King, and it's not _his _Country, either.

If it comes down to it, he'll make sure everyone knows it, too.

"Hello, down there!" Lady Sybil's voice rings out cheerfully behind him. "Wretched day, isn't it?"

His head jerks up in surprise, his train of thoughts interrupted in a completely unexpected, if pleasant, manner, before he fairly jumps to his feet. He does his best to smooth down his hair, hoping she doesn't notice, then turns to her, back rigid, shoulders tense, hands clasped behind him. "Good day, milady. Will you be needing the m-"

"Oh, dear, did I startle you?", she cuts him off, laughing at him. For a moment, he feels foolish and grows a little offended, _Does she think it amusing, then, going around her great big house, startling the servants? _

Then she continues, "I am sorry; only I'm so terribly _bored_, you see, being stuck indoors all day because of this ghastly weather, and so I rather thought I might pay you a visit."

Ah. Well. Yes. All right then. He'd be a fool indeed if he took issue with _that_.

Branson fights a grin, manages to settle for a smile instead, which immediately grows wider when she smiles back at him. "Well. I shall say that I'm honoured, then, and not so sure I could call today wretched, now you've said that."

He becomes suddenly painfully aware that he really isn't appropriately dressed to be seen by anyone, let alone to be seen by her, what with his shirtsleeves rolled up and the top buttons of his shirt undone. His fingers flex as he considers rolling down the sleeves and doing up the buttons, but his fingers are smeared with grease and he doesn't fancy making himself look like _more _of a mess in front of her.

It's a bloody stupid thing to ask a man to do a job like his wearing clothes that in some places, in most of the places he's been in his life at any rate, could easily pass for posh dinner wear. But she deserves better than to have a grubby chauffeur in a grubby garage say bold things to her.

He fetches a rag from the workbench and sets about wiping his hands clean, eyes averted. "...That is to say, I shouldn't like to take you out in the motor in this rain, milady."

"Oh, the rain! I don't care much about that, honestly." She casts off the dripping wet shawl, tugs it down from around her neck, bundles it up in her hand. "In fact, I think it rather suits me today."

He looks back up at her. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair damp and slightly messy, like the rest of her. She is so very _lovely _that he simply can't help himself, can't resist.

He doesn't fight the grin this time, just raises an eyebrow and shoots a pointed look at the hem of her skirt, covered two inches in mud. "I can see that."

And then to his delight, she does the same little twirl he saw her do not long after he'd come into Lord Grantham's employ, as she triumphantly showed off her infamous new "frock" to her family.

Only this time it's for him.

"Why, Branson, this _charming _pattern is all the latest fashion in London, don't you know."

He scoffs, "I'd believe it," and remembers the conversation they'd had in the Renault the day after she wore the "_jupe-culottes_", as she'd called them, when she had been complaining a little sulkily about her family's reaction. She hadn't expected much different, from her Mamma and Papa and her Granny, at least, but really, she didn't see how her, she'd blushed a little at the phrase, "_harem girl outfit" _was any more absurd than those "_frightful hobble-skirts"_.

Asking Gwen at dinner later that evening what exactly a "hobble-skirt" was had proven to be more than a little embarrassing, but at least Thomas hadn't overheard that particular conversation.

"I'll have you know, I intend to ensure that running about in the rain becomes quite the thing during my next Season," she responds, sounding enough like the Dowager Countess that he can practically picture her at a suffragette rally, wearing a simply enormous hat and hitting a policeman upside the head with a walking stick.

His gaze shifts and locks with hers. "I'd believe that, too. And I'd bet you would succeed, at that."

Clearly he's managed to say the right thing, because she ducks her head and her lips curve into a smile.

He wants her to look up at him again, so he steps forward to stop her fumbling with her wet shawl and takes it from her hand. His fingers brush lightly against hers, but there's no acceptable way to draw out the moment, so he turns away and taking extreme care, drapes the fabric over the open door of the motor. "That ought to do, milady. I hope. Though if it doesn't, please don't tell Anna. She'll have my hide if she finds I've got motor oil on it." _Anna, or Lord Grantham, if for a different reason._

She shakes her head, smiles again. "She won't hear, not from me. What were you working on?" Something occurs to her. "I'm not disturbing you, am I? I shouldn't like to be a bother, dropping in on you unexpectedly like this."

He lays his hand on the bonnet of the Renault with a measure of some pride. It may not be _his _motor, but it is his work that keeps it running smoothly and he can take pride in that, at least. "No bother at all, milady. I was only giving her a look, general, like. Not much else to do, with the weather like this, and what with no one wanting to stir from the house."

To stop himself from telling her that she could never be a bother, not to him, he examines a faint scratch on the bonnet, before adding, "Besides, it is your home, after all. You can come and go as you please, I would think." Of course, he suspects that her being caught paying a _social call _on the _chauffeur _would be met with considerable more disapproval than her trousers were, and so... "Only, won't you be missed?"

Her response to the question within the question is unconcerned. "I rather doubt it. Everyone seems to be quite determined to be dull and bored on their own, today." Arching her eyebrows, she gives him a significant look. "Which is, of course, why I decided to go for a stroll after luncheon, only to find myself caught in rather worse a rainstorm that I had expected, you see."

"Mmhm," he murmurs in agreement. If he had been pleased by her unexpected visit before, it feels like an even greater compliment now, after discovering she's put enough thought into it to come up with a plausible excuse to explain away her presence in the garage, should it be necessary. "Of course. Bad luck, milady."

"Rather. So the only reasonable thing, really, was to wait out the storm in here, of course, with you."

"Of course, milady. It wouldn't do for you to catch cold. I suppose I had better find you a place to sit, then, while you wait."

She takes off her damp gloves and places them carefully over her shawl. "Thank you, Branson, you are terribly kind."

"Not at all, milady." He disappears to the back of the garage, where he and Pratt store their tools, much of the bulkier equipment they use and various other things. He wonders how he'll find anything fit for a Lady to sit on. He wonders too what she thinks of the garage. Has she ever been here before? Did she ever visit the old chauffeur like this?

Finally, a dusty looking, but not too rickety stool turns up, and as he starts to give it a wipe down, his mind wanders to the chauffeur's cottage. It's nice enough, better than his place at the old lady's, where he served before he came to Downton. There's a small cast iron stove, the furniture is old, but well made, and his mother's badgering him about helping her with the housekeeping when he was a lad means that such rooms that are his are always clean and tidy. She would be far more comfortable in the cottage, to be sure.

But of course that will never happen. Her being in the garage is questionable enough as far as propriety is concerned. Lady Sybil is a free spirit, make no mistake, but she's not likely to come to tea with the chauffeur.

With a sigh, he runs his fingers over the seat of the stool and realising it's the best he has to offer her, returns. He sets it down by the workbench. "Best I can do, I'm afraid. I gave it a quick scrub down, but you'll want to mind your frock."

"Oh, I don't mind about all that, really! Besides, Anna does a splendid job with stains, and I-" She breaks off suddenly, frowning, says instead, "Thank you, Branson."

He inclines his head. "Milady**."**

She looks at the stool as though she has no idea how to get on it. Maybe she doesn't. The thought amuses him, and although perhaps it's a little unfair to her, he watches, curious to see what she'll do to overcome this obstacle.

"Would you mind...?" she begins, but then she trails off and simply takes action, stepping towards him and and placing a hand on his forearm.  
**  
**It's not as though he's never touched a girl before, but he's shocked by how forcefully the sensation of her hand on his arm, her skin on his, hits him.

They've touched countless times, but never like this before, not without leather or lace between them, not even at the garden party last month, and he thinks he understands now why a few decades ago, a man might have fallen to pieces over the sight of a lady's ankle.

Habitual deprivation of beauty and pleasure makes sudden exposure to both all the more overwhelming.

Hoping to disguise the fact that he feels like an idiotic schoolboy pining after his first sweetheart, he puts on his best neutral servant expression, places his free hand under her elbow, and boosts her up onto the stool.

Her hand still clutches his forearm. Her fingers are slender and soft and look pale even against his relatively fair skin. Her drying hair is curling slightly at her temples; her eyes are wide and very blue; her lips are parted; he realises how very close to her he's standing, and it is a lucky thing that she isn't meeting his eyes, because God help him, she is so, _so _beautiful.

He wonders if he's blushing.


	3. Chapter 3

Tom Branson is not a man who oftentimes finds himself left speechless.

He has always wanted to be the sort of person who says important things, _powerful _things, at important moments. And if _this _moment, the moment in which he stands close to Lady Sybil, her hand resting on his arm, his hand holding her elbow, while the sound of the rain outside accentuates the silence between them, isn't important...

...Well, then he's a monkey's uncle.

But for some reason, words, which usually come easily to him, don't come to him at all this time. Even though he knows that surely he has to say something, every ounce of eloquence he possesses has utterly deserted him.

Finally, he decides to begin like he did last month, "_I don't suppose..._"

It seems as good of a place as any to start, really, and once he gets going, while he rushes along, he's bound to figure out a place to end, but his words die away before they can leave his mouth because her hand slides off his arm. He won't ever forget the feeling of her fingertips brushing lightly against his wrist, but he now has no reason to continue his hold on her. He is sorry for it.

She raises her eyes to his, lifts her chin. "Thank you, Branson. I can manage now."

He releases her elbow. "Of course. Milady." His voice sounds strange in his ears, disappointed. He hopes it sounds otherwise to her.

She bites her lip, then gives him another smile, shrugging a shoulder a little apologetically. "Only it's difficult to get around very well, you know, in a c-" She breaks off. "In these we-" Her lips purse for a moment, almost imperceptibly. He might not have noticed, had he not been looking at her mouth.

"...That is to say, in this weather."

Branson suspects he knows exactly what it was that she had intended to say at first and that suspicion makes him grin. "Then I'm doubly glad you were able to find shelter here, milady. After your walk was so inconsiderately interrupted by the weather and all."

"Oh, yes. How very fortunate that when I came by, you were here working, and not gone off on some errand to Ripon, Malton, or heaven forbid, Kirbymoorside!"

"That's not likely to happen today, milady. Not in this weather, nor with the condition the roads'll be in," he comments.

She understands his meaning at once, he sees. Her shoulders relax and she settles herself more comfortably on her seat. "Do carry on with your duties, Branson. Don't let me deter you."

He inclines his head in acknowledgement, "Milady", before moving away to pretend to look through the manual on the workbench. While he leafs through the pages, he comes up with three or four things he can do to the motor that won't be too noisy or too dirty and that will keep him close enough to her so that they can talk.

Feeling very clever indeed, he takes a few things out of the toolbox, and walks back to Lady Sybil. "You haven't told me much about London yet," he says casually, as he lifts up the bonnet of the Renault.

"Mm," she demurs, "I suppose I haven't."

"I've never been to London," he remarks. When he glances over at her, her head is tilted slightly to one side and she's watching him, considering.

Finally, eyebrow raised, she nods her assent. "Well, if you're quite sure the extravagances of the oppressive upper classes won't distract you too much from your work, I should be happy to tell you all about it."

"'Distracting'?" He lets out an incredulous laugh and shakes his head, before his expression turns very grave. "On the contrary; channeling my righteous anger at the oppression of the proletariat into motorcar maintenance has served me very well in my career so far." He nods at her. "As you yourself well know, milady. Why, no _Tory _mechanic is skilled enough to find employ in the house of the Earl of Grantham."

The sound of her delighted laughter thrills him, but not as much as her next words do. "And very glad I am for it!" She gives him a fond look before continuing, "Although perhaps you might add some impassioned chest-pounding to this fine speech of yours next time."

He heaves a long-suffering sigh. "Really? I was thinking more along the lines of some tugging-at-my-hair-in-despair myself, but...as milady commands, so I obey." He bows to her formally before reaching for a wrench. "Go on then, tell me about London, so I have something to listen to as I work."

She obliges him immediately, and while she does, the weather outside continues to be wretched, as she'd said, although he still doesn't mind it, in fact, minds it even less than before. The doors to the garage, of course, are open, - again, he isn't a _fool _- but still, the wall of rain lends an air of seclusion to the garage, as though it is its own, _their_ own, private little world.

He is reminded of the small house in which he spent his boyhood and although it makes him miss his family, it gladdens him too that he has managed to find that feeling again here, of comfort and of home, in England, of all places, and with her, of all people.

With her, the titled English Protestant daughter of his titled English Protestant employer, who sits on a dusty old stool in the middle of a dusty garage on a dreary afternoon, swinging her legs contentedly as she chatters on about her Season, which comprised of countless luncheons, dinners, and balls honouring people named things like "Imogen Bellasis" -_To think the English think Gaelic names are strange!- _as she watches him pretend to do work.

Who would have had thought that Tom Branson would one day find himself a central player in such a scene? Not he.

"...Then Larry Grey asked me to dance with him _again_, and although he is quite nice really, he _had _made that wretched comment earlier when I'd asked him what he thought of Mrs Pankhurst's activities in the East End, so I really wasn't inclined to dance with him again, and so then of course I had to say that I was "_terribly flattered"_, only my feet were quite worn out and I did not intend to dance for the remainder of the evening. Shame, really. I do _love _to dance. But Mary says little white lies like that are necessary, and do more good than harm in the end, so I don't much regret telling them, really."

She pauses.

_To catch her breath_, he thinks to himself with amusement.

Then she sighs, meets his eyes with her own and continues. "How I longed for rational conversation! Of all the things I found in London, that was not among them." Her expression as she looks at him is so earnest. "But then I suppose I oughtn't have been surprised, really. Since you were not able to come down with us."

For the second time today, he finds himself unsure of what to say. For the second time today, he wonders if he's blushing. God, he hopes not. To be sure, she meant nothing by it. Only he can't help but be very pleased by her words: she likes him at least enough to tacitly tell him that she missed him.

He rubs the back of his neck, which feels as though it may be on fire, and clears his throat. "It was very quiet here without you. And without the rest of the family." Closer than that he dares not come to telling her that he missed her, too.

"I am happy to be home again. Especially now, with the War...Who knows what will..." Her brow furrows for a moment, but then she casts aside her gloomy thoughts and beams at him instead. "It is nice, isn't it? Talking to each other again. And face to face, for a change!"

"That it is," he agrees. "But then it's always nice to talk to you, milady."

...Perhaps being struck dumb by her words is preferable to saying things that may yet betray this ill-advised burgeoning infatuation with her he has been trying to diligently to suppress. He stuffs his hands, greasy though they may be, into his pockets to give himself something to do.

She does not respond and so he picks up the wrench from the workbench again and turns back to the engine, purposefully making a little more noise than necessary to break the silence between them, when she says his name, "Branson."

For a long moment, his back still to her, he simply stares at his hands. Always "Branson". Not that "Tom" would ever be proper, but...Does she know what his Christian name is? He doubts it. He's used to signing the ledger in the library "_T. Branson"_ , first initial, last name, as everyone who is not of the family does. Immediately, he resolves to sign his name "_Tom Branson_" from here on out. As unlikely as she is to notice, let alone to comment on it, the possibility, no matter how remote, of someday hearing her call him by his Christian name is too tempting to pass up.

Oh, he _is _a fool after all.

"Branson," she says again, so he turns to face her.

She blinks, glances away, then back at him. Her voice is hesitant. "That day of the garden party...do you remember? After we brought Gwen the news. We were standing together, and-" She breaks off.

His heart begins to pound as he tries to piece together an apology for the liberties he had taken that day in holding her hand, before she can ask him for one.

But to his surprise, she doesn't bring it up. Instead, she lifts her chin slightly and continues, "Before Mrs Hughes came...well, you were going to ask me something, I rather thought. Do you remember what it was, by any chance?"

He nods slowly.

Well, _hell. _Answering _that _might well prove more complicated than apologizing to her for taking her hand in his own.

He gives his response some careful thought before he haltingly finishes the question he'd begun to ask over a month ago. "I...don't suppose you could picture yourself by my side. Helping me become a politician, after your success with Gwen. Turning a chauffeur into an MP, I daresay you're up to the challenge," he finishes, adding a cheeky smile and a raised brow for effect.

It is only a half-truth, but that is already far more honesty that ought ever to exist between them.

"Oh, Branson." Her voice is warm and affectionate, far more than he deserves. "I very much doubt you will need anyone's help with _that_."

And at those words, all at once, he wants to make something of himself for an entirely new reason. Not only to bring justice and freedom to the poor and to the oppressed, who have suffered under the yoke of their masters for so long that they no longer notice its weight, but for _her_, too.

For her belief in the future.

For her belief in him.


End file.
